


White Noise, What an Awful Sound

by Snap_crackle_spock



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: I'm not using the original ages as in CMBYN, M/M, The Call Me By Your Name!AU literally nobody asked for, They gap is a bit smaller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2019-08-04 07:04:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16342103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snap_crackle_spock/pseuds/Snap_crackle_spock
Summary: Somewhere in Italy1983





	1. Blessed Be the Mysteries

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why but I've been associating Patroclus/ Achilles with Elio/Oliver since I watched CMBYN.
> 
> I honestly don't know what to tell you, I'm here to have fun.

_ Somewhere in Northern Italy. _

_ 1983. _

 

* * *

 

Patroclus was a tired person. He was never one for early mornings, especially early mornings without a decent coffee. He supposed Italy had made him lazy, if that made any sense at all. The summer holiday, mixed with it’s accompanying heat, and not to mention the easiness that came with the country itself had all worked together to turn Patroclus from a smart young boy who could easily impress his for his parents at dinner parties to a smart young boy who ‘just needed to apply himself more.’

That is to say, he’d grown accustomed to a certain, easy way of life in the past month and a half. He’d wake up -usually sometime around 11-, laze around the house until he got bored, and if that happened he’d call up Briseis and they’d bike into town together. There were no commitments, only this routine.

This routine that became disrupted when he saw his father’s pale blue buggy pulling up to the house. Patroclus caught a shock of golden hair through the window, until the car disappeared behind an fig tree, only to reemerge once more and grind to a halt. His mother was waiting for his father and the stranger, her hair tied on top of her head and a dopey smile plastered on her face.

The two men exited the car, the golden-haired one beginning to open the trunk, only for Patroclus’ father to wave his hands, and Patroclus could hear the faint “no no no, you’re the guest” from the opened window. His mother embraced the stranger, kissing both of his cheeks and gesturing to the door, saying something Patroclus couldn’t make out.

“Is that him?” Briseis asked, her copper skin glowing in the sun. “The American?”

“Yes,” Patroclus said, considering. He watched more intently as both his parents jovially introduced the stranger to Mafalda, the cook, who calmly shook his hands. Patroclus’ father called his name, and with that, he and Briseis separated from the window sill. 

“He’s handsome.” Briseis chimed in as the two of them descended to the first floor. Patroclus shot her a betrayed look. “What? He reminds me of the American movie stars.”

“You do understand I live in America, too,” He tested as they approached the door. 

“It’s different,” She shrugged, “You still  _ look _ French.”

“Patroclus!” His mother greeted as he and Briseis exited the house, taking a hold of Patroclus’ shoulder and presenting him to the American like a lioness, proud of her cub, “Achilles, this is Patroclus our son.” 

“Achilles,” the golden stranger held out his hand, which Patroclus shook firmly. Achilles then held out the same hand to Briseis, who beamed at him.

“Briseis,” she offered, leaning in to follow his mother’s pattern of kissing both cheeks, “enchente.”

“Pleasure to meet you both.” Achilles returned her smile before straightening.

“Patroclus, would you show him to his room?” His father asked, “I’ll bring your bags up soon.”

“I should get going.” Briseis waved at the family and stranger, walking over to where her bicycle was docked against an fig tree. “I’ll see you around, Pat. And you, Achilles.”

“Later!” Achilles called after her, his smile never waining.

With that she was gone, her bouncing curls flying in the wind created with her speed. As she vanished, Patroclus began leading Achilles up the stairs he’d just come down, into the room he’d just exited, and found himself raising his arms as if to say  _ this is it. _

“This was my room, but now it’s yours.” He found himself saying, if for no other reason than to explain the clear presence of boyhood in the room. 

Achilles didn’t care. He was obviously eyeing the two twin beds that had been pushed together. Before Patroclus knew what was happening, Achilles had taken a running start and landed on them, his hair strewn about across the pillow. 

“While you’re here I’ll be in the room adjacent to this one, though we’ll have to share a bathroom,” Patroclus continued, unsure of what else to do. At least, until he heard a soft snore coming from the bed. He turned to see Achilles already lost to sleep, his face having fallen from its grin into something softer, but equally genuine. 

Patroclus let out a huff that could almost pass as a laugh and set out to his new room, letting the door swing shut behind him. 


	2. Chapter two: Lord I no longer believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe he wanted to see what an adventure with this stranger would lead to.  
> Maybe he wanted to see if the golden statue was as hollow as the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no beta no edits we die like men

Patroclus did not feel bad about waking the stranger, Achilles, up. He doesn’t particularly feel  _ good _ about it, but there is an essence of fun as he lets the book fall from his hands, even if there’s already a frowning look of concern and embarrassment on his face by the time it hits the floor. He supposes this is what Odysseus, last summer’s scholar, felt like all the time. To be the one playing tricks, the thrill of pulling the strings and being one step ahead of an unknowing opponent. A game of chess where only one side gets a turn.

Patroclus had not liked Odysseus.

The collision happens, and he is already swooping down to collect the book, only to meet Achilles’ bright eyes when he straightens again. They are not so bright in the early evening hours, but he is still golden, maybe even more so than before. It’s as if his hair is eating up all the light in the room, stealing all of it for himself only to throw it out again from every pore of his body. Patroclus hated how radiant he was. 

“Dinner.” Was all he said. 

“Later,” came the sun-bathed reply, “give your mother my apologies.”

She would take them, that was the bittersweetness of it all. 

 

 

The next morning, Achilles deigned to join them for breakfast. They were all already seated, halfway through the meal when he joined them outside. Patroclus enjoyed this, the quiet peace of eating outside. It was so rarely a luxury they could afford back in the states, where they lived in a crowded area with temperamental weather. Here there was always sun, hardly even a stiff breeze to call for socks instead of sandals. 

His hair was down again, and it bounced when he sat down across the table from Patroclus. He’d seen men with long hair before, but never this effortless. It was a stark contrast to the mullets and rock and roll perms that filled the television and magazines. It looked a decade late in the most fashionable way possible, and Patroclus resented it.

He cracked the hard boiled egg in front of him with his spoon, eager for something to distract him, and only noticed in the aftermath as Achilles tried to play off the fact that he’d attempted to imitate the motion with lack-luster results. Something about a perfect man who can’t crack an egg is wonderful. It makes him question things. 

Mafalda came by to offer him another, and he replied, “No. No, sorry I know myself. I’ll have one, then three, then four.”

This was new. 

They ate in peace as his parents went through the standard opening conversations.  _ How was your trip? What’s your home like? Anything in particular you want to see while you're here? Where did you say you studied again?  _

Patroclus had watched this dance a thousand times, new how inconsequential each step was by heart. Maybe the repetitiveness was what broke him.

“I can show you around if you want.”

His parents look at him with disbelief, this is probably the first time he’s done anything so out of the ordinary all summer, after all. He’d never offered to play tour guide before, and he still doesn’t know why he did this time. Maybe his inclination to playing the part of the game maker was rolling over last night.

Maybe he wanted to see what an adventure with this stranger would lead to.

Maybe he wanted to see if the golden statue was as hollow as the rest. 

“Great. Are we far from town? I need to open a checking account.” As he said this, his throat stretched –not that Patroclus was looking, of course– and around his neck swung a shining Star of David, though that too was dwarfed by his own radiance. 

Maybe he wanted to see how many new things there were to discover.

 

 

After, they went to a small cafe, though Achilles was a million miles away so it could’ve been anywhere. As he poured over his bank papers, Patroclus had to resist the urge to lean in, to study. He was not the scholar of their family. He wasn’t really the  _ anything _ of their family, but definitely not the scholar. He spent more time with Mafalda, after all, picking herbs from their garden and learning the ways they went together. 

Achilles was something else, though. None of their other residents had ever opened a checking account, but none were this full of life, either. Patroclus was intrigued with it, and even more so with his childish desire to learn Achilles’ opinions. Not of him, not just him at least, but on everything. He wanted to know how he saw the world work.

“What does one do here for fun?” Achilles asked suddenly, pulling Patroclus from his head. He sat like a child, Patroclus noted. Not that Achilles could’ve been much older than him at all, but he sat decades younger when he looked like this. Patroclus had thought himself childish, but this still-life before him radiated youthful wonder and eagerness to see how the world worked. 

“Nothing,” He replied, almost sad to see the look fade from Achilles’ bright eyes. “Wait for summer to end, I suppose.”

“What, there’s  _ nothing  _ to do? What about that girl from yesterday, are you two the only people here under 25?”

“You’re talking like you aren’t.” 

“I don’t count, I’m not from around here.”

“Neither am I,” Patroclus found himself defending, “My family is Jewish, English, American, Italian, and French. We’re not  _ from _ anywhere. Atypical, I know. You, on the other hand, you look like you could be at home anywhere.”

Achilles was the one leaning in, now defending, “I come from a small town in New England. A very… A very monotheistic town, and a very overbearing family. I know what it’s like to be the odd one out. What do you do here for fun?”

“What do you do for fun?” Patroclus shot back.

To his surprise, Achilles played along seamlessly. “Music, mostly. I studied piano when I was a kid because I’d never seen a lyre, but after that love-at-first-sight moment, I was exclusively attached to that.” 

Unwillingly, Patroclus grinned, let out a half-hearted laugh, which Achilles joined. 

“Read books, mostly,” Patroclus finally answered, “think of doing something and then decide not to. Swim in the river and maybe go out at night.” He thought for a moment. “Sometimes I read herbology books and see what I can make, according to my mother we should see my version of sunscreen.”

Patroclus had never told anyone about that. It wasn’t something that most people asked about, and he’d never found it necessary to throw it out into a conversation before. 

This was all new. 

They sat at the table for another moment, thousands of miles apart from one another, and before Patroclus knew what was happening, a warm hand was on his shoulder and gone before the “later!” had entirely left Achilles’ mouth. 

**Author's Note:**

> The way I'm writing this, Pat is 18 and Achilles is 20.  
> I really don't want to get into the whole age thing.


End file.
